Unlikely Hero
by LetheSara
Summary: "It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was."   Lucius Malfoy had a reputation, and not a particularly pleasant one at that. But it didn't matter, not to the people who did. Not to his family, and especially not to his son.


_A/N: Okay, this has been sitting on my computer, half-finished for a little while now and I decided to finally finish it._

_This piece, I have to admit, is a little different from the other stories I've written, but I'm really quite pleased with how it turned out. _

_What can I say? I just like the Malfoy's. _

_No Copyright Infringement Intended. I Own Nothing._

* * *

><p><strong>Unlikely Hero<strong>

"_It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was." – Anne Sexton_

Lucius Malfoy was a man many feared, few understood, and even fewer loved. He wasn't an easy man to get along with at the best of times, and he maintained a strict household. Even his own son had his moments of doubt.

I should know.

That was me.

Draco Lucius Malfoy.

The blond-haired, only son and heir of the man - the monster, some argued - himself.

For centuries the name Malfoy has struck fear in the hearts of the people, and the rumours have always been less than flattering. But none of that really mattered to me, and I don't think it really mattered to him either. It's funny how, despite everything, my memories of him were all fairly pleasant.

Growing up, he was always there. From the moment I woke up, until I went to sleep at night, he was always around. Sometimes he was in his study, shuffling papers, reading them over, and adding his signature with a swish of the inked quill he was holding in his right hand.

Black. Always black ink.

Perhaps that was a metaphor.

Other times he would be in the sitting room. A cooling cup of tea on the antique table by the side of his usual armchair, and the Daily Prophet open to a mostly unimportant page. His steel grey eyes would scan the paragraphs and the moving pictures almost as if he wasn't interested. Looking back, I supposed that the only reason why he read it cover to cover each day was due to a faint sense of obligation. Even now that hasn't changed.

To be honest, he never was an overly warm parent. He didn't coo, or fuss over me like others did, he didn't rush to hug me or kiss my cheek and for so long I thought it was because he didn't love me, or because I was some sort of disappointment to him.

How wrong I was.

It would take years before I could finally see the truth.

My father never hated me.

My mother had told me that he had always been a careful man, and in his profession, that was essential. But it was a skill that came with a price. Through his dealing with both politicians and Death Eaters alike, it was almost as if he had forgotten how to release his emotions. Well, around me anyway. With mother it was like he was a different person entirely. She's one of the few people I've ever seen him laugh, and let his guard down, around. I remember that asked her about it one night, and she said it was because she had years of experience with him, I didn't believe her at the time, but I should've.

At times, I think she knew him better than he knew himself.

Me too, for that matter.

My mother always was a remarkable woman.

She never did receive enough credit for everything she did. She kept both my father and I grounded.

Where would we be without her?

I'm willing to bet either a cell in Azkaban, or dead.

That's why I buy her a Mother's Day card every year…

But Father's different.

He's still remarkable, of course, but quiet with it.

Quiet. That's what he was.

I think that, unlike mother, he never really knew how to tell me how he felt. But now I know. Maybe part of the reason was because there are no words to describe the love a father feels for his children. Or perhaps I just tell myself that to get to sleep at night.

But he's always been proud of me, that much I know.

Even if it did take this long to realise.

But now he's older. His once blond hair is an intriguing shade of grey, and he potters around, somewhat absent-mindedly. I don't think he's ever been quite the same since the end of the war. But maybe that's for the best. After the Department of Mysteries, I think he lost a lot of what made him, _him._ A little bit of him died that day. Along with his pride, and the respect people held him in. After that incident, and throughout the height of Voldemort's power, he was nothing but a joke. An emasculated and humiliated shell of his former self.

After Voldemort's fall, there was a time when no-one was really sure if my father would be sent back to Azkaban or not. I know that he had nightmares about returning, but I also knew that he would go if ordered, if only to pay his dues and try to make up for what he had done.

Then Potter testified, and he was pardoned. We all were.

I suppose that's another reason why the entire Malfoy family isn't quite the same anymore. It's hard to be a cruel to someone when your indebted to them and, in my case, actually owe your life to them.

But I like to think I've outgrown my old, school-yard tendencies, and though I don't think I'll ever be comfortable around Potter, or the rest of the Golden Trio, I am always civil.

After all, the name _Malfoy _means nothing anymore.

I think that's what's been the hardest on my father. Being worthless. Not literally, of course. We may have fallen from grace, but we still have enough gold in Gringotts to last us for generations to come. But the knowing that society doesn't fear you anymore, that's taken away the most from him.

It's never easy anymore.

He still puts on a smile, especially for my mother and I but if you look hard enough, you can see him straining behind it. Part of him longs for the days when he was at the height of his power, his influence, and his control. When he was feared, loathed, and abhorred. I think that, to him, those were the signs that he was successful in whatever he was doing.

To a Malfoy, they always are.

Part of me wants to change that, if only for my own son's sake, but part of me still loves to remember the feeling of when I would walk into a room and people would stop. When they instinctively knew my name, and, like my father, feared me.

But I want different for Scorpius.

I know my father does too.

He doesn't want his only grandson living with the regrets that he does, and that I do.

No one should have to.

But it's a curse we have to endure.

And we do so with our heads held high.

It's the Malfoy way.

That's something that will never change.

Unlike him.

These days, I watch my father. Just watch him. He still reads the paper each morning, and he still sits my by mother in the garden every afternoon. He'll spend hours with Scorpius, sometimes talking, sometimes playing, and his eyes betray nothing of his past while he does so.

Scorpius loves his grandfather, but I often wonder that if he had known him when I did, would my own son still feel the same way?

I don't think I have an answer.

I don't think I want one.

All I know is I love my father.

It doesn't matter where he's been or what he's done. What matters is that he loves me; that he loves his family.

In the days to come, people will not stop loathing Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, and I doubt they ever will, but they don't matter.

Not after everything.

Not anymore.

After his death, like all men, he will be forgotten. But not by me. He has always, and will always be my father, and that is how I will always remember him.

Ultimately, that's what it comes down to.

_It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was._

He will always be my hero.

Even if he doesn't know it.

* * *

><p><em>Don't be shy, tell me what you think. Loved it? Hated it? Comments and reviews are always welcome and much appreciated. Remember that in a world of silence, you have a voice. Make your opinions heard.<em>


End file.
